Murder for Practice
by BAW
Summary: A serial killer stalks members of the Major Crimes Unit; part of the "Jacob's Ladder" series


Detective James J

**Murder for Practice**

**By**

**BAW**

**Disclaimer: **This is a piece of fanfiction, set in the universe of the television show** "The Sentinel."** The characters and setting of this universe are property of Pet Fly, UPN, and other entities. This story was written for amusement and as a composition exercise, and I am informed by counsel's opinion that such falls within the bounds of the 'fair use doctrine.'

**Feedback: **[][1]web2575@charweb.org Please, love it or hate it, say something. (I've opened a few 'cans of worms'; I'd especially like your reactions and speculations about them.)

**Archive:** Yes, wherever; please let me know where.

**Classification: **Case Story

**Warnings:** Some rather gruesome murders. OFC (Maureen reappears, briefly.)

**Notes: **This is part of the Jacob's Ladder series; Blair went through the Academy and has joined Major Crimes as Detective B. Jacob Sandburg. As a seal to their partnership, Jim made him co-owner of the Loft as an Academy graduation present. 

**Other stories in the series:** _The Natural; But There Will be Joy in the Morning; Up the Twisted Staircase; On the Threshold; Provenance Unknown; _and _The Sandburg Express_. _The Natural_ is the first story (really an epilog to _"The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg"_) and _The Sandburg Express _is the last; all other stories fall in between. At present, no post-Express stories are planned, but this is not set in stone.

There are references to both** The Highlander** and **dueSouth**, but not enough to make this a crossover in the strictest sense.

Detective James J. Ellison, Sentinel of the Great City, focused his eyes on the road ahead. The turnoff was nearby, and he did not want to miss it.

"Have you seen the pine-tree with the withered branch?" asked his partner.

"_Beware the pine-tree's withered branch/Beware the awful avalanche!" _he quoted back.

_"Excelsior!"_ both men crowed.

"In answer to your question, Sandburg, yes, I did. The directions say third driveway on the left--and that would be this one."

"Did I remember to thank you for agreeing to come get Naomi?" said the younger man, "I didn't anticipate being without wheels this weekend and"

"Chief, it wasn't as though you did it on purpose, and it was in the line of duty. And I _like_ your mother, I really do. Even if she drives me batty sometimes."

"Yeah, I remember the first time you met. I thought you liked her a little_ too_ much, if you get my meaning. _Tongue?_"

"Well, she said it was _your_ favorite," began the Sentinel.

"Jim," said Jacob, "have you _ever_ seen me eat it before or since?'

"Erno."

"She was after you, man. You could have been my stepfather and only eight years older; now that would have been an embarrassment. Well, at least you would have been _older."_

"Your mom's had boyfriends younger than you?" asked Jim as he made the turn.

"More than once. I've dated older women--starting college at sixteen one can't avoid it--but not _that_ much older."

They turned off the secondary road onto a private drive that circled among the new-growth forests. It was obvious that this area had been farmland at one time, but had been allowed to return to forest. Soon they came to a large clearing, in the middle of which was an old farmhouse; someone had recently modernized it, including installing solar panels on the roof. The drive crossed a narrow but deep stream on a humpbacked bridge. Looking to the left, one could see that the stream had been dammed to form a pond; several white ducks swam in it, and a man was fishing on the shore. Farther up the hill some sheep and goats were grazing; there was a chicken house and a large vegetable garden. On the veranda of the house a tall, redheaded woman was standing next to several pieces of luggage. She was having an animated discussion--had it been anyone else it would have been a _fight_, but Naomi Zipporah Sandburg, Last Flower Child Not Gone to Seed, did not _fight_---with a short man in denims. The Sentinel extended his hearing; normally, he eschewed eavesdropping, but he had a feeling that this conversation was one he needed to hear.

"I don't care if this is your house, Dustin, you will _not_ call my son or his friend _pigs_!"

"Naomi, I'm surprised at you! Don't you remember what they did to us back in. . ."

"Neither Jim nor Blair ever did anything to you! Blair was a baby then, and Jim would have been in grade school!"

"No, not them personally, of course, but the pigs. . ."

"Dustin, a lot of people did things back then that they later regretted. Dredging up thirty-year-old grievances gets us nowhere."

"Perhaps you can forgive, Naomi, but I can't!"

"That is between your spiritual advisor and you, Dustin--but I repeat, they are hardly responsible for what happened. Hold a grudge against the men who hurt you, if you must--but leave my boys out of it!"

"How you can condone your own son joining the American Gestapo. . ."

"Dustin, that's low even for you. The police have a legitimate role in society. When those hunters started shooting on your land, you called the sheriff and the game wardens--and that's exactly the same thing."

"Well, I . . .erah. . . "

"Do you remember that series of particularly revolting child murders down in Cascade, Dustin? _My son_ caught the man who did them. That doesn't bring back the children who were killed, but because of _my son_ that monster will never hurt another child again. That should count for something."

"Jim! Jim!" said Sandburg urgently, "What are you listening to?"

"I never thought I'd see the day," replied Jim.

"What? What?"

"Your mom defending the police. She's actually _proud_ of your being a cop!"

"Jim, don't joke about that. Naomi may have come to accept my decision, but she'll _never_ like it."

"Sandburg, I can hear her. That man referred to us as 'pigs' and she's telling him off but good!"

"_Naomi?!"_

"The same."

At this point the blue-and-white pickup pulled up to the porch. Jim and Jacob jumped out of the truck; Naomi waved to them. The man she had been talking to looked at the newcomers, pointedly spat on the ground, then went back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

"Hi, Mom!"

"Hello, sweetie."

"Hi, Naomi."

"Jim! Great to see you."

"Mom, did you and Dustin _have words?"_

"Sweetie, I tried to be polite, I really did, but there was so much bad aura building up. I showed them your Academy graduation pictures and told them about your new career and. . .they just don't understand!"

"But you and Dustin have been friends for so long! Let me talk to him, let me explain. . ."

"No, sweetie. Detach with love. There's so much bad karma between Dustin and the police, he just can't get around it as I have. I was going to ask you to stay for lunch--Irma was making her special roast duck--but there was so much bad feeling that _nobody_ would have been comfortable."

The ride back to the main road was silent.

"I'm sorry, Mom," said Jacob suddenly.

"For what, dear?"

"For coming between you and your friends."

"Honey, don't be. If they can't see that becoming a police officer hasn't changed what a wonderful person you are, then that's _their _problem."

"But, Mom, that's just it. It _has_ changed me."

"Life is change. 'One can't step into the same river twice'; had you finished your doctorate and become a full-fledged professor, that would have changed you too. Perhaps not as much, or in the same way, but you would have changed," she replied, "What irks me is that they wouldn't even give you a chance. You and Jim are such good men, but they wouldn't even see you, talk to you. They talk so much about being open and accepting and nonjudgmental, and then go and do something like that. Really, I'm quite miffed at them."

"Naomi," said Jim, "they're just _people_. Everyone has prejudices. Some of us are smart enough to recognize them and try to look beyond them. After all, when I first met your son I called him a 'neo-hippie witch doctor punk' and he called me a 'throwback to primitive man'."

"I'd hate to think what you thought of me at first."

"Well, I'll admit that when you switched the furniture around and started burning that sage. . ."

"How was I to know you were allergic?"

The rest of the trip back to Cascade was spent in cheerful reminiscence. _Certain topics_, by unspoken consent, were strictly avoided.

No sooner did they approach Cascade, but Jim's cell phone rang.

"Ellison! Yes, sir. On our way, sir," he said, closing the instrument.

"Was that Simon?" asked Jacob.

"Yes, we need to get to the station. A Situation. He wouldn't--or couldn't--say what. We'll drop Naomi at the loft. . . .Sorry, Naomi, but we can't stay."

"I quite understand. And, if it turns out you'll be busy in the morning, I'll call a cab for the airport. Don't worry about me. I'll make dinner for you--something that will hold, in case you're late--and I promise _not_ to burn sage or move the furniture."

It was hard to believe that, less than an hour ago, they had been having a pleasant drive with cheerful conversation. As a soldier, and later a policeman, Jim had seen some dreadful things, but this even made him feel queasy. Jacob was looking slightly green.

It was a nice house, in one of Cascade's better neighborhoods. It was not unlike the house Jim had grown up in; he remembered that it had belonged to one of his father's business associates, a man who had since sold up and moved to warmer, drier climes.

The body had been discovered on their pool deck, laid out on one of the lounges as though he were sunbathing. Except for the head. That was bobbing in the pool like some grotesque swim-toy.

Normally a murder--even a revolting one such as this--would be the province of Homicide; however, the present owners of the house were a County Commissioner and his wife, who was an administrator at Rainier University. One of the specialties of Major Crimes was politically sensitive cases, and this definitely qualified.

"And so, Detective Ellison," said the uniformed officer, "the housekeeper came back from shopping and found. . .that. There was no sign of forced entry to the house, and the gate to the pool enclosure was locked."

"Good. Can we have the _dramatis personae_?"

"Edgar Ravenswood, Jr., and his wife Lucille; they're both out of town. Two teenaged children, Edgar III (known as Trey), 16, and Diedre, 15. She's a sophomore at Sacred Heart and he's a junior at Aquinas Prep. Mildred Hawkins is the housekeeper."

"Are the kids home yet?"

"Mrs. Hawkins says that they're both at practice; lacrosse and field hockey. Trey has his license and was to pick up his sister. Forensics is going over the scene now."

Jim and Jacob walked over to the pool; Jim scanned the area with his enhanced senses, but found nothing unusual.

The body was of a man, well muscled, between 5'7" and 5'9". He was wearing a pair of blue Madras-plaid swim trunks and sandals. There were no contusions or other wounds except for the severed neck, which was sliced quite cleanly. There was very little blood.

A Forensics person was reaching out with a long-handled net to retrieve the head. Jim and Jacob got a good look at it--large, blue eyes staring out under long, brown, curly hair.

"Excuse me," said Jacob in a small voice, and vanished around the corner. It did not take Sentinel ears to hear _the worst_ happening.

Jacob was on his hands and knees behind the house's heat pump. He felt a hand on his shoulder; looking up he saw Jim holding out a handkerchief.

"You gonna be OK, buddy?"

"Jim, he looked like. . ._me_."

"Yes, Chief, he did. I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"Perhaps. But Jim, what if we're related? I don't know who my father was, you know."

"Could be, Chief, but that's not why we're here. Are you OK to go back to the scene?"

"I am now."

"Good."

Dr. Dan Wolf, C.M.E. of Cascade, emerged from the autopsy room in the morgue, removing his gloves; he was somewhat surprised to see Detective Sandburg waiting for him.

"Hey, Jacob. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Dan; I'd like a favor from you. It's a little irregular."

"What is it?"

"Well, how much do you know about my family background?"

"Not much; I met your Mom once, I don't think I've met your Dad."

"Neither have I."

"Oh."

"That guy who was just brought in, the decapitation? Did you notice something about him."

"Now that you mention it, he looked a lot like you."

"Exactly. I'm wondering if we might be related. Can you do a genetic match?"

"That would be a little irregular, but you've done us a few favors, running your anthropological eye over some of our specimens. I'll give you the results on the QT."

Adam Sobol, 28; lawyer, junior associate of a medium-sized law firm. Undergraduate, Reed College; law school, University of Washington. Single. No steady girlfriend. Had just paid off his student loans out of an inheritance from a great-aunt and had made a down-payment on a loft in a converted warehouse. 

Nobody had missed him because he had taken a few vacation days. There was no sign of a struggle at his loft, and his car was still in its usual parking space.

The ME's report showed that there was no sign of any injuries other than the fatal blow. His head had been struck off by a single stroke of a sharp, heavy blade, such as a machete. There were traces of a powerful sedative in his body; he had probably been so 'out of it' that he wouldn't have known what was happening to him. A more detailed analysis of the sedative showed that it was a formula approved for _veterinary_ use--not human; it was commonly used on horses.

The genetic test showed that he and Detective Sandburg were not closely related. There were points of similarity, but he was at best a distant cousin, and the similarity could be as easily explained by a common ethnic heritage.

The late Mr. Sobol's life was examined under a microscope, but nobody could find a reason for the killing. 

It was unfortunate for all that when his parents came to collect the body, Detective Sandburg happened to be in the morgue. He had been required to be in court that morning, and was therefore wearing a suit; his resemblance to the victim was even stronger than it might have been, and Mrs. Sobol had to be sedated.

Detective Ellison found is partner in the break room, breathing into a paper bag.

"Jim, they had pictures of Adam growing up. He looked _just_ like me. And Mrs. Sobol looks like me in drag. I need to find if she has a brother; she might be my _aunt._"

"You didn't ask her, did you?"

"Of course not. That would be inappropriate and unprofessional under the circumstances," snapped Jacob, angry blue eyes glaring up at his partner.

"Woah! Down boy! I didn't think you would--I just had to ask; as senior partner, I'd be remiss if I didn't."

"O.K., Jim; I didn't mean to bite your head off, but. . ."

"I know, Chief, I know--you can't help wondering."

"When this is over, I'll go see them and ask. Not before," affirmed Jacob, turning to the case file.

"I don't understand it. We've gone over _everything_ we can find about either Sobol or the Ravenswoods. There's no motive. Sure, they have people who dislike them, but not enough to do. . . .this!" exclaimed Jim.

"I'm afraid," replied Jacob, "that we may have a serial killer on our hands. Everything about this crime indicates an unbalanced mind. Unfortunately, without a larger. .er. .sample, we can't draw a valid generalization."

"Chief!"

"What?"

"What happened to my gentle Guide? That was so _cold._"

"Jim, I have a choice. I can be cold, or I can have hysterics. The latter won't help anyone. I know this case may give me nightmares; I don't have to let it give me _daymares_. Didn't you tell me a long time ago that one had to 'check one's humanity at the door'?"

"Actually, Chief, that was _your_ phrase, although it summarized what I was saying. But that was what was so special about you; you could stay warm and human while. . ."

"Facing the horrors?"

"Yes."

"Jim, I still have feelings. I've just learned how to master them, rather than letting them master me."

"But if I hadn't dragged you into police work. . ."

"Look, Jim," said Jacob, slightly exasperated, "I was hardly innocent before; as an anthropologist and an archaeologist, I've studied cultures where such practices were common. I'm sure you've read what the Aztecs used to do to their sacrificial victims, and some of the things that go on even now in, for example, New Guinea and Borneo—well, let's just say that if I'd taken Dr. Stoddard's offer, I'd have seen just as bad, and have had to manage not to freak."

"I'd never thought of it that way before."

"I may check my humanity and the door, Jim, but I do pick it up on my way out. The day I no longer can, _I'll turn in my badge_."

"Fair enough."

"No matter how much you try to be the Great Stone Face, I know that you feel the same way. Now, back to work. Where's that forensics file? Let's go over what we do know about how Sobol died."

A review of the file established that:

  1. There was no sign of a struggle, or of any violence offered to the body except for the severing of the neck.
  2. This had been accomplished with a heavy, sharp instrument, such as a machete.
  3. There was little blood at the scene.
  4. There were traces of a soporific in the bloodstream.
  5. Both the head and the body had been carefully washed after death.

This meant that:

  1. Sobol either knew his assailant or for some reason considered him or her not a threat, and had gone with him/her willingly at first.
  2. He had been killed elsewhere than where he was found.
  3. He had been rendered docile by the drug, and probably did not know what was happening to him.

"Heads up!" said Simon, "Another body! Same MO--decapitated, the body laid out poolside, the head in the pool. Let's roll!"

This body was also of a man, late 20's to early 30's. He was between 5'10" and 6', slim and well-muscled, with straight dark hair and hazel eyes. When Rafe saw it, he turned gray and started muttering under his breath in a language that was not quite German. Jacob laid a hand on his arm.

"Rafe, come on man, don't freak out on us," soothed Jacob, "Look away, take a deep breath."

He sent a look at Simon, who made a 'shoo'-ing motion, and lead the Armani-clad detective around the corner, where he sat him on a stone bench and talked softly to him while the EMTs bagged the body.

The body was quickly identified from fingerprints as Charles Niemann, 32, Mental Health Nurse Practitioner. He worked at Conover Psychiatric Hospital. Like Sobol, he had a reputation as a quiet person, not much of a socializer, no steady girlfriend; he, too, had just left for vacation and had not been missed. He, too, had been tranquilized with horse pills. The only connection between the two men, other than their striking resemblance to two Major Crimes detectives, was that Niemann had been working on his master's at the University of Washington at the same time as Sobol had been in law school there; there was, however, no evidence that they knew one another. (As Sandburg pointed out, it is a big university.)

As soon as they returned to headquarters, each detective found the same e-mail message in his mailbox:

**JUST PRACTICING!**

Unfortunately, the message was sent anonymously from an offshore server.

"Well," said Simon, "I think that officially we can say that we have a nut case on our hands. Sandburg, as you are the court-accredited psychological expert here, what can you tell us?"

"Our primary victims were both young men, professionals, and graduates of the University of Washington. Both had lifestyles that made them unlikely to have been soon missed. Both looked a great deal like members of this unit, namely Rafe and myself. Given the message in our e-mail boxes this afternoon, I think that the resemblances are _not_ coincidental. To say the least, we find that disconcerting, but we are coping; I've seen you walking on eggshells around us, and it is not necessary. 

"The secondary victims were well-to-do, old-money families. Both belonged to the same country club, both had teenaged children attending the Catholic boys' and girls' schools. By the way, both secondary victims were Catholic, while the primary victims were a Jew and a Lutheran; if anyone was thinking that there was a religious angle, I think we can eliminate that idea.

"Our perp would have to be intelligent and resourceful, as well as--if you will pardon the unscientific terminology--a total loony. However, she or he would look harmless; there is no sign that either primary victim was taken by force. Remember, Niemann was a Mental Health Nurse; he would probably have recognized anyone obviously unbalanced. Any questions?"

"Sandburg," asked Taggert, "you said _she or he_. Do you think that a _woman_ could have done this?"

"It isn't likely; there are few female serial killers. However, either of the victims would have been more likely to have gone willingly with a woman than a man, and if either was drugged surreptitiously--say, by slipping the drug into a drink--it would be easier for a woman than a man. The chopping is more a masculine method of killing than a feminine one--but there are exceptions; ask anyone from Fall River, MA. What was done with the bodies would be easier for a man than a woman--particularly as Niemann was no lightweight--but not impossible for a woman. The short answer is: more likely a man, but _perhaps_ a woman."

"Do you think," asked Megan, "that it could be an old case come to haunt us? Someone who has or imagines a grudge against us?"

"Possible," he replied, "and we should check our old files, particularly ones which Rafe and I worked on--and that would include Jim's cases from my time as an Observer-Consultant. I think it more likely that it is someone who has been following our cases from outside."

"How so?"

"Cop groupies. There are civilians who are fascinated with police work, particularly detection, and the some of them fixate on highly successful detectives. I know of people who keep scrapbooks of clippings concerning their favorites. I don't think I've been around long enough to attract that sort of attention, but perhaps Rafe has; and, perhaps my time as an Observer-Consultant has made one of Jim's fan's jealous, especially now that I'm officially on board. These people are mostly harmless, but they sometimes go over the edge, particularly if there is a romantic fixation involved. If anyone has been getting 'mash notes', please let either Captain Banks or me know about them. Captain, we video the crowds that gather at crime scenes, don't we?" 

"Yes."

"We need to start looking at the old videos, see if certain people keep showing up."

"All good ideas, Sandburg. Since there is a definite psychopathological aspect to this case, and you're our resident Behavioral Sciences expert, I'm making you Point Man on this case. Now, is there anything new on the Fielding case?"

"Well, Captain," said Brown, "Rafe and I. . . ."

"Jim," asked Jacob as they came back to the loft, "do I talk over people's heads too much? I don't _try_ to, but Megan asked me a question this afternoon; there was something I mentioned at the meeting that went right over her head. I _try_ not to flaunt my education, but. . ."

"Chief, we've all learned to value your esoteric knowledge--and you _are_ very good at explaining complicated things in simple terms. Yes, we're sometimes overwhelmed at what you know, but you don't make us feel inferior by it. What brought this on?"

"She asked me what the reference to Fall River meant. I _really_ didn't think that was so esoteric, or I would have explained it."

"Well, I'm sure that all the Americans got it; but Megan's fit in so well that we forget that she's not from here. _I_ knew you were talking about the town where '_Lizzie Borden took and ax,/ and gave her mother 40 whacks;/'"_

_". . .and when the job was good and done/ she gave her father 41."_

_"Close the door!" _continued Jim, _"Lock it! Latch it!"_

_"Here comes Lizzie with a brand-new hatchet!"_ Jacob concluded, "Of course, Mrs. Borden was Lizzie's _step_mother, not her mother, and the evidence showed that Mr. Borden was killed first. . . . "

"And she was acquitted of both murders," said Jim, sorting the mail, "although the real murderer was never found. What're all these things from colleges? You're not thinking about going back into teaching?"

"No, Jim; I promised you that I have no intention of doing that until I get too old and creaky for police work. I'm thinking of getting another master's in Psychology; these are schools that offer one with no or minimal residency."

"Why?"

"Two reasons. First, you know that I took about thirty graduate hours in Psychology at Rainier; if I'd cared to write a second thesis I could have earned a second M.A. At the time I didn't see the need, but now I feel that I'd be a little more credible as an expert witness if I had the degree. Second, you remember how I said that, ultimately, I wanted to finish my doctorate? Well, I've decided that, when I do, I'll switch from anthropology to psychology; I could do that on the basis of the credits, but my application would be stronger if I had the degree."

"Why the switch?"

"Jim, as a Forensic Anthropologist, they'd have me in the lab all the time; I was always the kind of anthropologist who observed the behavior and interactions of live people, rather than the remains and relics of dead ones. As a Forensic Psychologist I can stay in the field and work with live folks. If there were such a thing as Forensic Sociology, I might go that route, but that field either doesn't exist or isn't widely accepted. I want to find which school will a) let me transfer the largest amount of work from Rainier, b) let me spend the least amount of time on campus and c) has a strong enough reputation that the degree will be accepted. I'll look these over later. My night to cook. How does _Chicken Cacciatore _sound?"

"Great."

Jim Ellison was dreaming. He was dreaming of a steam locomotive emerging from a tunnel, sounding its whistle. At that point he woke up, to find that the whistle was still blowing. It took a moment to realize that the whistle was, in fact, a series of shrill, rhythmic shrieks. As soon as he realized this he was out of bed and halfway down the stairs to the main level of the loft. There he saw his Guide standing in the middle of the main room, clad in his boxer shorts; his eyes were open, but they were fixed and unseeing, and his mouth was open. The shrieks were coming from him.

Jim ran to the kitchen, grabbed a saucepan from the rack, filled it with cold water, and dashed it over Jacob's head. The shock of the cold water woke him up and stopped the screaming. He fell into a boneless heap on the floor. Jim rushed to the bathroom and came out with an armload of towels. He began to dry off the floor and his Guide, whose present silence was even more disconcerting than the noise.

There was a pounding at the door.

"Detective Ellison! Detective Sandburg! What's wrong?" came a voice, which Jim recognized as their neighbor.

"Nightmare, Mr. Wilcox. Sorry to disturb you."

"If you're sure you're all right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Very well."

Jacob was now more-or-less dry, but he was shivering. Jim moved him to the sofa and wrapped him in the afghan. He then went back to the kitchen, put the teakettle on, and poured a snifter of brandy. Returning to the couch, he pressed it into Jacob's hand.

"Drink. Now, what was that about?"

"This is going to sound silly."

"Nightmares frequently do."

"I was standing next to a backyard swimming pool. There was a man sitting in one of the deck chairs. He had no head. There was head was floating in the pool. It was blond, and when I pulled it out, it. .it. .it---it was _Lash's_. It said, 'Who am I now, Hairy Blairy?' I dropped it on the pool deck, and the body got up and started feeling around. It found the head and set it on its shoulders, then it said, 'Just practicing!' Then it pushed me into the pool and I woke up."

"Now that doesn't sound silly at all. It sounds damnably frightening. I don't blame you for being scared; I'm scared just _hearing _it. This case is giving us all the willies."

"Well, its certainly pushing all my buttons."

"You know, Chief, if it gets to be too much, you can ask Simon to give it to someone else."

"**No,** Jim," said Jacob, jumping up and starting to pace, "Its important that I take _this_ case."

"Why?"

"Jim, I've more than once said that my academic training in the behavioral sciences was directly applicable to police work"

"Yes you have. You said that anthropology was all about how people get along with one another and what happens when they don't, and that's certainly applicable to police work."

"Well, Simon _gave_ me this case because of my background in psychology. If I were to beg off, it would be tantamount to eating my words."

"But if you can't. . ."

"If I feel that I can't solve the case, if I'm really not up to it, I'll ask to have it reassigned. But I won't do that until I've tried. I feel like a prize idiot waking you up--not to mention Mr. Wilcox."

"Don't. As I said, this case is enough to give _anyone_ nightmares. Now, do you think you can get back to sleep?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. The kettle's about to boil. What kind of herb is good to relax you and help you sleep? No, you sit down; I know how to make tea after all these years with you."

"Chamomile. In the blue box."

"Good. Do you think you should see the doctor about some pills to keep the nightmares away?"

"Drugs that would take care of the nightmares would leave me dopey by day. There's an apocethary in Chinatown who can give me some herbs. Now, let's talk about something else; if we talk about work, I _will_ be up all night."

"Okay. What do you think about Naomi's new attitude?"

"Exactly what did she say to that guy?"

"First, she pointed out that the police filled a necessary function in society, and that as what's-his-face didn't mind _calling_ them when he needed them, he shouldn't object to their existence. Second, she pointed out that you were accomplishing a great deal of good--or at least preventing evil. Third, she pointed out that whatever problems he had had with the police in the past, neither of us had anything to do with them personally, as we were just children then. She also referred to us as 'her boys.'"

"Well, that last's a relief. I'm very fond of you, Big Guy, but I don't want you for a stepfather!"

"Was there anyone?"

"Anyone what?"

"Any of your Mom's old boyfriends you'd have wanted for a stepfather?"

"No; not really. Especially not after I read **David Copperfield**; I'd hardly want a Murdstone in my life!"

They continued discussing inconsequential things for a while, until both started to yawn.

The next day came an unexpected break in the case. A bartender from the Purple Parrot, a swing-dance nightclub, remembered seeing both victims there shortly before they disappeared. He said that Sobol had left with a man and Niemann with a woman; this was somewhat unfortunate, as it was unlikely that there were _two_ serial killers with the same MO in the area. However, if either person could be found, she or he might be able to say where one of the victims went after leaving the club. The bartender readily agreed to come down to the station to work with their sketch artist and to look at mug shots; the latter to no avail.

Jacob sat at his desk looking at the two composite sketches. There was something that they were trying to tell him.

"Jim, could you look at these pictures? There's something not right here, and I'm wondering if you can spot it. I have an idea, but I don't want to say anything for fear of influencing you."

"Well, Chief, _I _think that they are two pictures of the same person, but in the second one the guy is done up in drag."

"THAT'S IT! I'm going to get on the net and see what I can find about transvestite serial killers and murders by decapitation."

Most of the decapitations followed a pattern, but one very different from the Cascade ones. Most of the victims were found where they were killed, were men and women alike from all walks of life, and each death coincided with an unpredicted electrical storm.

There were several cases of transvestite serial killers, but these did not match the Cascade killer either, as the victims were also involved in alternative sexual practices, and there was no evidence that either Sobol or Niemann were.

However, they finally hit paydirt with a case from Chicago which almost exactly paralleled theirs--a string of decapitated corpses, laid out in strange places; the message 'just practicing' sent in this case to a law firm, and then another set of decapitations of lawyers and paralegals. In the second string, the victims looked enough like those of the first to have been their siblings. The last paralegal had fought off his attacker, but the suspect vanished without a trace."

"They're faxing the case files to us now," said Jacob, "I'll just type up my notes from my conversation with the Mountie."

"What's a Mountie doing talking about a Chicago PD case?"

"Apparently one of the victims in the first set was a Canadian citizen; the Mountie is the law enforcement attaché at the consulate and worked on the case."

"Was it Alain's friend? The one who gave him the package for here that he had to get Connor to deliver?"

"Yes. Alain must have told him something about me, 'cause he asked if I was 'Alain's friend, the anthropologist-detective', and asked if I had heard from him recently."

At this point the Major Crimes' fax machine 'beeped', indicating that the files from Chicago had arrived. 

Jacob and Jim perused the documents, noting the similarities between the Chicago and Cascade cases. It was obvious that the Cascade murderer was either the same person or a very close copycat. Then they came to the Chicago police artist's sketch from the surviving victim's description. Comparing it to the Cascade drawings it was obvious that this was the same person.

"What now, Chief?"

"I would suggest a stakeout of the Purple Parrot. Borrow some people from Homicide and Vice for the surveillance and we of Major Crimes will go in semi-undercover."

"What do you mean 'semi-undercover'?"

"We'll not attempt to disguise ourselves, or go in as anything other than customers. If any of us run into an acquaintance, we'll not pretend to be other than we are, but give out that we're _not_ there on official business--just there to dance and meet people, like everyone else."

"OK, but you'll be coordinating from outside."

"No, Jim. If anyone _should_ be in there it should be Rafe and myself. The 'practice murders' resembled us; in the Chicago case the second set of victims were taken in order, so we know that we'll be first."

"Let's take it to Simon."

By dint of yelling and screaming on the one hand, and fast-talking placation on the other, the plan was approved. The captains of Vice and Homicide agreed to loan officers for the stakeout. Megan agreed to be Jacob's 'date' for the evening, and Maggie Ross from Vice offered to accompany Jim, saying "Stephen won't mind." As Rafe was already dating a detective from Robbery, that was taken care of. Brown coördinated the outside surveillance.

If this had been a night out, they would have had a good time. The music was good, the atmosphere was pleasant, and the company excellent. However, although all six detectives had their eyes peeled for the suspect--in either persona--s/he was never seen.

Things took, momentarily, a somewhat unpleasant turn when Jim and Maggie were doing a foxtrot and a finger tapped a shoulder.

"May I cut in?" said a familiar, but unexpected, voice. Jim turned to look into the angry green eyes of Maureen Fitzgerald of the Cascade Pumas. Maureen nearly knocked Maggie down in attempting to get Jim away, and they were soon moving across the dance floor.

"Who," whispered Maureen through clenched teeth, a pleasant expression nailed to her face, "is that black-haired hussy and is there one good reason I shouldn't ask her to step into the ladies' room to explain herself?"

"That 'black-haired hussy', as you put it," replied Jim in a similar tone, "happens to be a detective from Vice; we're here on a case. Be nice, or I'll arrest you for interfering with a police investigation."

"You wouldn't."

"Don't try me. Now, the dance is almost over. Be pleasant to Maggie, please."

They made their way back to the bar, where Maggie was nursing a club soda.

"Maggie, I'd like you to meet Maureen. Maureen, Maggie. Maggie works with me; Maureen plays basketball for the Pumas."

"Charmed," lied Maggie.

"Mutual," lied Maureen.

Meow. 

Hiss.

"Now, what was all that about?" asked Jim much later, as he drove Maggie home , "It's not as though you and I were _really_ going out, or that I was _really _cheating on Maureen. I felt like a haunch of venison between two hungry she-wolves."

"I don't know, Jim. As soon as I laid eyes on you two together, I thought _'Back off, slut--he's MINE.' _I guess Ellison men have that effect on me." 

"How serious are you and Stephen?"

"Why do you ask?"

"We're not that close, but he _is_ my little brother, and I _do_ feel that I have to look out for him."

"We met about the same time as the Alex Barnes thing. I was working undercover at a strip joint. He was there with some Japanese businessmen and recognized me from the precinct. He didn't blow my cover, but he did slip me his card with a note that he wanted to meet me. I called him the next day and we met for lunch. He was worried about you, but you wouldn't tell him anything, so he pumped me for information. He was good at it, too. Of course, I didn't know much more than the public record. But one thing led to another and we started going out occasionally, and we've became seriously involved about the same time as that flap over Sandburg's dissertation. At this point, if he'd propose, I'd probably say 'yes.' If we're still together next Leap Year, I may take matters into my own hands."

"I was startled when I saw you with him and Dad at Sandburg's Academy graduation. How much have you told him about my time in Vice?"

"Nothing. When I found out that he didn't know, I didn't think it my place to tell him."

"Well, if you two _do_ get engaged, tell me and I'll fill him in. I wouldn't want you to keep secrets under those circumstances, but I'd rather tell him myself. Ah, here's your place."

"'Night, Jim. Sorry we didn't catch the guy."

"Ellison-Sandburg residence. Good morning , Simon. . . .Oh, _not_ a good morning. Yes, yes. You want us to come directly there? OK. Yes, I've got the address. We'll be on our way."

"What was that, Chief?"

"There's been another murder."

"Same MO?"

"Yes."

"Who does it look like?"

"Brown."

Nothing more was said until they reached the site. Again, it was an upscale house with a swimming pool in the back. Again, the victim was laid out as though sunbathing, with his detached head in the pool. Major Crimes was gathered around the body, except for Henri Brown who was being sick in an out-of-the-way corner.

"We've got an I.D. on the body!" announced Simon, "Roland Jefferson, manager of the Southside branch of the Cascade Public Library. What do you bet we find that he did his MLS at UW, and would have been there at the same time as the two other men?"

Sandburg went over to Brown and handed him a handkerchief.

"Henri, Henri--you going to be OK?"

"Oh, man--first you, then Rafe, now me--will this sicko find lookalikes for _all _of us before he's through?"

"I don't know, man. Can you come join us? They've covered him up."

"I'll be OK. You'd think I'd be beyond throwing up at a crime scene. I've seen worse, but. . ."

"But when the victim looks enough like you to be your brother--I know, I've been there. We'll get him, don't worry."

Further investigation discovered that Jefferson had frequented various jazz clubs. After some inquiries, a doorkeeper at one place recognized him as having left the previous night with a man who answered to the description of their serial killer.

Jim and Jacob made a trip to Seattle and looked through the records of people who had been in graduate school at the University of Washington at the same time as the three victims. They found a man who had taken his MSW and looked very like Jim, and a woman resembling Megan who had done her MBA; upon learning from the alumni office that both were working in Cascade, they immediately called Simon.

"Where are they?" asked Jim as they entered the bullpen.

"Joel and Simon have gone out to get Mr. Adian O'Mally; Brown and Rafe are going for Ms. Elizabeth McRorie. They should be back any moment," replied Megan, "Simon thought it best if they didn't see either of us until we could do an 'unveiling.'"

At this point Megan's phone rang.

"Major Crimes, Inspector Connor speaking. Oh, hi Rafe. Good. Simon said to put her in his office."

She hung up just as Jim's phone rang.

"Major Crimes. Ellison. Oh, hello, sir. Yes, they're almost here. Megan said you wanted them in your office? Right. Sandburg'll see to it; Megan and I'd better make ourselves scarce."

Jacob escorted the two U-W alumni into Simon's office. Their resemblance to the two detectives in question was remarkable. 

"Mr. O'Mally, Ms. McRorie," he said, "first of all, I want to thank you for coming in. Please know that neither of you is a _suspect_; we do think you might have some information. First of all, have you met one another before?"

"I'm sure," said O'Mally, "that if I'd met this lady I'd not soon forget it."

"Well, you do look a little familiar, but I can't quite place it."

"Our records show that you attended graduate school at the University of Washington at the same time."

"Yes, but it's a big university," began McRorie.

"And I was going part-time while working," added O'Mally, "I didn't do much of the campus social scene."

"Do you recognize any of these men?" asked Jacob, showing the three victims' pictures.

Neither person did.

"These three men have three things in common. All were graduate students at U-W at the same time as you two were. He was in the law school, he was in the nursing school, and he was in the library school; you were respectively in business administration and social work. The other thing they have in common is that they are all dead; murdered, apparently by the same person.

"What's the third thing?" asked McRorie.

"This," replied Jacob, setting pictures of himself, Rafe, and Brown next to the three dead men's pictures, "The first picture is of myself, Jacob Sandburg. This is Detective Brian Rafe, and this is Detective Henri Brown, both of this office. Jim, Megan, could you come in please?"

There were gasps as the two visitors saw the remaining two members of Major Crimes.

"As you can see," added Sandburg, "we have reason to think that you two are in danger. We would like to put you in a safe house."

"Unacceptable," said McRorie, "I have obligations."

"Ms. McRorie. . . "

"That's _Lt. Commander_ McRorie, USNR. I'm on duty this weekend."

"Well, I suppose that you'll be safe there. But you will allow us to escort you to and from?"

"If I must, I must, Detective Sandburg."

"And you, Mr. O'Mally?"

"I'll have to call a few people, but yes, I can afford to vanish for a few days."

"Very well. A patrolman will drive you home. Pack for a few days. Bring a good book or something; our safe-houses are pleasant enough places, but being stashed incommunicado is hard on the nerves, and anything you can do to keep busy will help. Any questions? Good. Thank you for your cooperation."

After everyone else had filed out, Simon asked Jacob to stay a little longer.

"Sandburg, you're doing an excellent job."

"Thank you, sir. But why do I detect a _but _coming up?"

"Probably because it is. The fact that our perp--whoever he is--has pulled this stunt in Illinois as well as Washington means that the FBI wants the case."

"The _Fan Belt Inspectors_! No way!"

"As Darryl would say, 'Yes, way.' Special Agent Wolfgang St. James has a Ph.D. in Forensic Psychology. His partner, Cynthia VanDeusen, is a Forensic Anthropologist; I'm sure, at the least, that you can talk shop with them. I've never met either of them, but by reputation --unlike most Feds-- they _don't_ make a habit of waltzing in and taking over from local law enforcement without very good reason."

"Well, to quote the Lt. Commander, 'if we must, we must.'"

Agent St. James was tall; even taller than Jim, although not so tall as Simon--reflected Jacob as he watched the Feds approach--and very thin, with red hair and green eyes. As a kid, he probably looked like a real geek.. VanDeusen was short; about 5'2"--vertically and horizontally--but wasn't _fat_, seeming to be quite solid, with brown hair and eyes. St. James looked to be in his mid-thirties; VanDeusen was about forty.

"Detective Sandburg? I'm Special Agent St. James. This is my partner, Special Agent Cynthia VanDeusen."

"I'm pleased to meet you. This is my partner, Detective Jim Ellison. And please, call me Jacob."

"We go by Wolf and Van."

After being introduced to Major Crimes, the two Federal agents wanted to see the case files. They averred that they were impressed with the job the locals had done so far, and made it clear that they were only there to help, not take over. They did insist that they would come to the safe house, which necessitated changing the location to a larger one.

At the loft, Sandburg packed his usual 'safe house kit', which consisted of several videos and CDs, a few decks of cards, a backgammon set, a chess/checkers set, and a few board games--Monopoly, Risk, and Scrabble; he snapped his guitar into its case.

"Sandburg!" growled Ellison, "What's all this junk for?"

"Jim, eight adults cooped up in a house all weekend could be hell. Even if we were all good friends, we'd get on one another's nerves. The only way to make it tolerable is to provide things to _do._ Think of it as a slumber party for grown-ups."

Jim grumbled, but he had to admit that it made sense.

It actually turned out to be rather fun. Rafe, Megan, and the two Feds spent most of the time playing bridge, while the others played various board games. Jim and Adian O'Mally shook the family tree and discovered that O'Mally's great-grandmother was an Ellison, sister to Jim's great-grandfather. Jacob became exited at this, and devised some subtle sensory tests. The social worker identified a spice minutely present in one of the meals, and insisted on tuning Sandburg's guitar himself, mentioning casually that he had perfect pitch.

"Do you realize what this means, Jim?" the excited Jacob said as they got ready for bed Sunday night, "He's your cousin, and has three heightened senses. I've always thought that Sentinelism might be hereditary."

"Three? I caught the enhanced taste, but. . ."

"Taste and smell are closely related--anyone who has one enhanced has the other, although not usually to the same degree. I'm not sure which is stronger on Adian--I'd need to do some more tests to find out, and that's not practicable here. And perfect pitch indicates at least partially enhanced hearing. And social work might be considered a manifestation of the need to protect the tribe."

"But Chief, I have closer relatives who _don't_ have enhanced senses--Stephen doesn't, Dad doesn't, and I don't think Rucker does."

"It might be a recessive gene that triggers the whole thing; if I knew more about your mother's family, and Adian's. . ."

"Later. Have you given any further thought to _your_ genealogical puzzle?"

"No. When this is over, though, I'll talk to Mrs. Sobol."

The quiet of the late Sunday night was shattered by the sound of a cell phone's ring.

"Ellison. What? Yes, we'll be right over."

"What happened?"

"Someone broke into McRorie's apartment. The uniforms chased him, but they lost him. Come on."

Connor, Ellison, Sandburg, and the Feds left Rafe, Brown and the uniforms to guard O'Mally, proceeding to McRory's apartment, which was in a subdivided Victorian mansion; McRorie's place was in the back, above the garage, and had probably been originally servants' quarters. The surveillance team had seen the person walking up the driveway, but had thought he was another tenant. When he went around back, they became suspicious, and realized that something was up when he climbed the stairs to McRory's place. He picked the lock, went inside, and re-locked the door, obviously intending to lie in wait. When the officers came to the door, he went out a window and down a drainpipe. They fired on him, but missed, and he vanished into the woods at the back of the property.

"Those trees mark the edge of a ravine leading down to a creek," said the officer, a Patrol Sgt. Wilson, "and I didn't much relish the idea of climbing down in the dark--that's asking for a broken leg or neck."

It was early enough on Monday morning that black was turning into gray; which, of course, meant that it was as bright as noonday to the Sentinel. He examined the apartment, the back window, and the drainpipe. He then followed the trail to where the subject had entered the trees.

"Are you sure you didn't hit him?" he asked Wilson.

"I don't think so--he didn't slow down any."

"There are traces of blood on the bushes."

He followed the trail through the trees to the edge of the ravine. It was apparent even to non-Sentinel eyes where the subject had gone down. He scanned with his hearing and smell, but found no sign that their quarry was lying injured or dead at the bottom--a minor miracle, given the steepness of the drop and the darkness.

"Sandburg, do we still have our waders in the truck?" asked Jim, remembering a similar situation in a previous case.

"No."

"Oh well. Is it light enough for you to see the way down?"

"Yes."

"I think it'll be easier over there."

"Very well."

'Easier', however, did not mean 'easy', and it was by dint of much slipping and sliding that they reached the bottom of the ravine, where they promptly sank in mud halfway to their knees. The sound of two men swearing in at least at least seven languages filled the ravine.

"Are you two OK down there?" called Connor.

"Yes," responded the two in chorus.

"Don't bother coming down," yelled Jim, "There's no sense more of us getting mucked up. Follow along the top of the ravine. I'm going downstream, Sandburg's going up."

"The ravine isn't too wide here," called Wolf, "I'll see if I can get across."

There was a sound of running feet, then a shout, and the sound of someone doing a forward roll on the other side.

"I knew lettering in broad jump would come in handy," the redheaded Fed continued, "I'll scout this side--upstream."

"I think I can get across too," said one of the uniforms. He scrambled up one of the trees, crawled out a branch, then jumped down on the other side; he then proceeded to scout downstream, while Connor and Agent VanDeusen took the near side.

About a mile downstream, a road crossed the stream on a stone bridge. Just beyond the bridge there was a small strip of shops, including a convenience store. Connor crossed the bridge and was soon joined by the tree-climbing uniform---Officer Alejandro Calderón, the only male officer smaller than Detective Sandburg---and, presently, by a wet, muddy Detective Ellison.

Inquiry at the convenience store determined that yes, a man had come, wet and muddy, and had called a cab. The officers had just missed him. The clerk agreed that the man was not unlike the artist's rendering of the man at the nightclub, and was able to remember which cab company had picked the man up.

"Well, Jim, here's where the cabby said he dropped his fare off," said Jacob, "Can you pick up anything? The mud from the creek is fairly distinct. Remember the smell of the creek and see if you can track it."

"Got it, Chief. It's faint, but I do smell it."

"Good. Follow it."

The two detectives proceeded up a lane to a small group of apartment buildings set well back from the main road and shielded from it by trees. The scent-trail went through the parking lot to the farthest building in the complex and lead to an upstairs apartment. A quick stop at the complex manager's office produced the name and work-address of the tenant---Gregory Hartounian, paralegal.

The next step was to obtain Hartounian's picture from the D.M.V. and show it to the two potential victims. He was faintly familiar to both of them, but neither could place from where they knew him. He was also not dissimilar to the artists' sketch of the person at the nightclub.

Jacob and Jim then visited the law firm where Hartounian worked; it turned out to be the same firm that had handled the Ellison family's affairs since the days of Jim's great-grandfather. Although generally unwilling to trade on his family connection, he was willing to do so on this occasion, as the senior partner--whom he remembered calling 'Uncle Martin', and who had retained an annoying habit of calling him 'Jimmy'--was willing to talk to _him_ when for any other officer he would have insisted on a warrant. 

They learned that Hartounian had been an undergraduate at the University of Washington at the same time that the victims and potential victims had been in graduate school; after graduation he had moved to Chicago, where he worked as a paralegal; after having been there a few years, he moved back. He had excellent recommendations from his Chicago firm, and had given the reason for his leaving only 'desirous of change', and had said that he wanted to move back to the Pacific Northwest. So far he had been an excellent worker, and the firm was considering sending him to the Rainier Law School's Evening Program.

"I hope," said 'Uncle Martin', "that this is a mistake. I wouldn't like to think that Gregory is involved in anything illegal. He's an excellent worker and a very nice young man. Very methodical work-habits. Practices every new skill until he gets it right."

"At this point he's only a suspect," replied Jim, who had not missed the reference to _practice_, "and it wouldn't be the first time we've suspected the wrong person at first."

"Of course, should we fail to turn up evidence, we'll pursue other avenues of investigation," said Jacob, "Our department is not in the habit of railroading people. _Good_ day, sir!"

"What was that all about?" asked Jim later.

"Didn't you hear what your 'Uncle Martin' was insinuating? That there was no way that a murderer could be in _his_ law firm, and that we somehow had it in for his paralegal?"

"He never said that."

"Not in so many words, but he hinted at it. Why do you think he praised him so much?"

"Did you catch the name of the Chicago firm?" 

"Oh yes. The same firm where those lawyers and paralegals were killed."

"Things get too hot for him there, so he moves back to Cascade."

"Then starts all over again."

"This time he decides to target a group of cops."

"Us."

"I think we go to the magistrate for a search warrant."

A search of the apartment turned up horse pills, a machete, and shoes stained with mud matching the creek's. That was more than enough to arrest Hartounian, who cracked under questioning. The University of Washington connection was fairly easy to uncover; Hartounian, as an undergraduate, had been a waiter at a tavern near the campus which all the victims had frequented. 

"Well, Chief, how did it go?"

"I didn't have to bring it up. She immediately asked about my family. We talked a bit of genealogy and. . ."

"And?"

"Her great-grandmother was a Sandburg, my great-great-grandfather's younger sister. So I still haven't a lead on my father."

"Disappointed?"

"A little. But its not as though I'm on some sort of holy quest."

"How did she feel about it?"

"Ecstatic--or as ecstatic as anyone whose son had been killed by a serial killer _could_ be. She insisted that I was family and would be inviting me over for the Jewish holidays."

"Will you go?"

"Yeah, I think I will. They're nice people, and if welcoming a new cousin to the family circle will help them cope with the loss of a son, I can't say them nay--and they _are_ family, after all. What are _you_ going to do about _your_ new cousin?"

"Adian's a good guy. We'll do lunch a couple of times, perhaps bring Stephen along. Adian's never been sure if his Great-grandma Ellison was one of the Cascade Ellisons, and he seems glad to know--but not in a snobbish way."

"Good."

"What was it that Wolf St. James took you off into the corner about?"

"This," replied Jacob, holding out a business card.

"Wolfgang St. James, Ph.D.," read Jim, "Federal Bureau of Investigation, _Recruiting & Training Division_?!"

"He said that, if I ever got tired of Cascade, the Bureau was always looking for good people."

"Are you going to take him up on it?"

"The only way I'd do it would be if _you_ wanted to join the Bureau; I'm _your_ Guide."

"It goes the other way, too; if you _really_ wanted to become a Fed, I'd go with you."

"Well, I don't. I'm tempted to say, 'Unless, of course, you want to,' but I don't think we want to go the _Goofy Gophers _route."

"Aww. . .Chief!"

"Not the hair! Not the hair!"

It was a typical Cascade November--cold, wet and dreary. The _temperature_ wasn't so very low--but the damp made the cold go right through to the bone. Jacob Sandburg wrapped the afghan more securely around him and moved closer to the fire. The broken bones, gunshot wounds, and other injuries he had suffered in his police work--both as an observer/consultant and as an officer--made for some interesting aches in really damp weather and _the Dunking_ (as he called the Hargrove Fountain affair) had left him susceptible to respiratory infections. He sipped at his tea. It was an herbal blend which Myrtle and Henry Chou (both O.M.D.) had assured him would address both conditions. It even tasted pleasant, with a bit of honey.

It was not the chill of a November afternoon that made him shiver, but the contents of the document he held in his hands. It had arrived with the afternoon's mail; an envelope with the same return address had also arrived for Jim. He would probably be just as unhappy to hear the news.

As though the thought conjured him, the Sentinel arrived.

"Hey, Chief. That smells good."

"_Stufatto_."

"Bless you."

"No, that's what it is. An Italian beef stew."

"How did court go today?"

"Everything went fine. They accepted my analysis of the social structure of the gang. Great to use the Anthropology degree again."

"Any interesting mail?"

"_Interesting_ is the word for it. I have a bottle of wine breathing--we're going to need it."

"What do you mean?"

"Open the letter on top of your pile first."

The Sentinel did so, and proceeded to throw the document of the floor and stomp on it, swearing in English, French, Spanish, and Chopec.

"My sentiments exactly. I added Hebrew, Guarañí and Swahili."

"How did this happen?"

"_The Allied Advocates for the Institutionalized Mentally Ill--_to think I've actually donated to them!--managed to track down a distant cousin, apparently her only living relative, with whom she's had nothing to do since she was a little girl, and got him to agree to sign the petition. We need to answer if we want to testify."

"Damn right we will!"

"And I intend to brandish my Certificate of Expertise for all its worth. I've drafted a letter."

Jim looked at the screen of the laptop.

"This is perfect."

"I'll print it out and we can sign it. I'll send it Certified Mail tomorrow."

"Better yet, we'll deliver it _in person._"

"Yeah!"

Jim picked up the offending document and attached it to the refrigerator by means of a magnet. It clearly read:

**State of Washington**

**General Court of Justice, Common Pleas Division**

**in of and for Cascade County**

_**Notice of Hearing**_

**_In re: _****Alexandra Katherine Barnes**

**On petition from Edwin Michael Barnes-Wentworth, being her next of kin, a hearing will be held concerning her involuntary confinement in the Conover Psychiatric Hospital.**

**Hearing is to convene on December 10, 2001, at 1:00 p.m., before **

**_the Hon. Judge Felicia Rhodes._**

**All persons desirous of offering testimony in this matter must file Notice of Intent with the Clerk of Courts of said County on or before December 3, 2001.**

"I think I'd better lay in a stock of my anti-nightmare tea," said Jacob.

"Get extra for me, Chief. We'll both need it."

**=The End=**

   [1]: mailto:web2575@charweb.org



End file.
